


Drowning in a Sea of Love

by Portrait_of_a_Fool



Category: The Following
Genre: Blood, Joe loves him anyway., Lots of Blood., M/M, Murdersexual romance, Ryan Hardy is a bad bad man., Spoilers for 3x10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 23:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3874084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Portrait_of_a_Fool/pseuds/Portrait_of_a_Fool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Joe is dead doesn’t mean Ryan can let him go. It doesn’t mean he loves him any less, nor does it mean Joe is truly <em>gone</em>, though the grief is chewing at Ryan’s brain like an angry rat. As his madness spirals out of control, Ryan falls down the rabbit hole on a crash course toward certain death. Joe is right there with him though, riding shotgun with the promise to never let him go. Along the way, there are a few dead bodies and a couple of bone-shaking surprises. And in the end, Ryan might just get exactly what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drowning in a Sea of Love

**Author's Note:**

> I didn’t handle the Bad Death of Joe Carroll well _at all_. Not even a little bit. In fact, it broke my fucking heart into a million pieces. So, this is my way of trying to fix it, for my own therapeutic reasons and perhaps for a few others as well.
> 
> I opted not to warn for a couple of other things. I will not change my mind about this because I feel that such a warning is a spoiler and that’s not okay with me. If you choose to go ahead and read anyway, then I sincerely hope you enjoy it.

_For I think of you, flung down brutal darkness;_   
_Crushed and red, with pale face._   
_I think of you, with your hair disordered and dripping._   
_And myself, rising red from that embrace._

— Conrad Aiken   
“Red is the Color of Blood”

**I**

Ryan sits in his car after the bar closes and sips from one of the pints of whiskey he picked up at the liquor store next door. He stares at nothing, stares at infinity. He sees Joe wherever he looks, sees him most vividly when he closes his eyes. Ryan doesn’t feel the tears coming on, doesn’t feel the choking knot in his throat until it is hard to breathe and by then it is too late. He lets them come, helpless to stop this, helpless to do anything other than curl into a whiskey-reeking rag heap of a man. He wedges his skin and bones, his flesh that still lives, between the steering wheel and the seat. He tightens the knot of himself, a melting man of bitter salt trying to hold his shape, shivering in the driver’s seat.

Joe’s fingers stroking through his sweaty hair startle Ryan and he lifts his head from the curve of his shoulder to look across to the other seat. Joe smiles at him and touches his cheek and Ryan sobs. He can hear him and he can feel him, he is that real—Ryan’s _memory_ of Joe is so complete even the shadows sketching the planes of his face are right.

 _Hush that now,_ Joe says to him. _You’ve nothing to weep about._

“You’re _dead_.” Ryan’s voice is accusing, raw and wet as a wound.

 _That is true,_ Joe says. _Quite dead, in fact._ Then he taps Ryan in the center of his forehead. _Except I am not either. In you, I will live forever._

“Joe,” Ryan says just to feel his name in his mouth. “Joe.”

 _Shh, I’m right here,_ Joe says. He looks around, stares out the windshield then looks back at Ryan. _We should go, however, lest an officer of the law see you weeping behind the wheel. That would never do._

Ryan uses the sleeve of his coat to wipe his face then screws his fists into his eyes like a small child, bereft and without his teddy bear to keep him company through the long legs of the night. Then he laughs and turns around in his seat.

“I’m drunk,” he says.

 _Oh and how,_ Joe says. _You had best be careful then, hmm? Wouldn’t want to be apprehended, now would you?_

“Nope,” Ryan says. He cranks the car and begins to pull out of his slot. He taps the brakes a bit too often, over-cautious and wary, but he makes it into the road at long last. He stares straight ahead and begins his slow crawl down the street and toward home.

Beside him, Joe chuckles and leans back in his seat, eyes closed and a little smile on his face. _Onward,_ he says.

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “Where are we going, Joe?”

 _Wherever you want to go, my love,_ Joe says.

“I don’t know yet,” Ryan says.

 _Oh, I think you do,_ Joe says.

They both know he doesn’t mean _home_ or _elsewhere_.

Ryan makes it home without hitting any parked cars, running over the curb or mowing down any pedestrians. He crows once he has meticulously wedged his car into the designated parking spot for his apartment. Once he has killed the engine, he turns on the radio and listens to music while having a few more shots to celebrate this sodden victory.

Upstairs, there is a life that is a lie, there is Gwen with her tears and judgmental eyes. She is probably still awake. She will probably try to force Ryan into discussing his fucking _feelings_. The thought makes him want to puke. Ryan does not want to go up there, but he’s too drunk to risk driving anywhere else, so he will have to make do with a bad situation.

“Okay, Joe, let’s go,” he says.

Joe says nothing, but he is standing right beside Ryan, his column to prop him up as he takes one shuffling, swaying step after another toward the elevators. His silent support is appreciated and once they’re inside the elevator, Ryan sags against him. Joe’s arm around his shoulders is all the comfort he needs. It is all the comfort he _ever_ needed and yet, he spent so long denying himself this one thing.

It does not seem fair to accept it now that it is only a figment of his fevered imagination.

“I’m sorry,” Ryan says as the floors tick by.

 _I forgive you,_ Joe says. _I never have been capable of staying angry with you for long._

“You should hate me,” Ryan says.

 _Leave it to you to be so negative,_ Joe chides then kisses Ryan’s jaw. He can feel the slight moisture of his lips, the warmth of them, on his skin. It breaks his fucking heart all over again.

Then the elevator doors are sliding open onto Ryan’s floor. He keeps quiet while they move down the hall because he doesn’t want to disturb the neighbors. He is considerate that way.

He is as silent as a drunk can be whilst fumbling around in the dark. It’s a small, wondrous miracle that he actually disables the alarm instead of hitting one of the panic buttons and accidentally calling the fire department. Ryan takes time out to also drink to this victory before lurching out of the entryway and into the living room.

The light is sudden and blinding and he reels back from it.

“Where have you been?” Gwen is standing by the light switch; arms crossed under her breasts and a look that wars between disapproval and concern tugging her mouth in strange directions.

Beside him, Joe makes an _ugh_ sound in the back of his throat then says, _Uh-oh, the little woman is upset, Ryan._

Ryan ignores him though his chest hitches with a strangled snicker. “Out,” he says.

“Out where, Ryan?” Gwen asks as she comes toward him. “I have been worried sick since we talked. You didn’t sound like yourself on the phone at all then you… you hung up on me.” That she sounds offended by that annoys Ryan to no end though he tries not to show it.

When she is right in front of him, she tips her head back and breathes in deeply.

Ryan watches her and remembers a line from an old country song: _He knows that she knows._

“And the thunder rolls,” he says aloud when the song clicks. He is pleased with himself for remembering, but Gwen does not look like she feels the same.

“You’ve been drinking,” she says.

 _Well, she’s a bright one, isn’t she?_ Joe mutters.

Ryan grins at her. “I just realized something,” he says.

“Oh? And what is that?” Gwen asks. She taps her foot on the carpet.

“Why I keep you around,” Ryan says. He leans close, breathes his whiskey breath all over her scowling face. “It’s so you can tell me the shit I already know. Bravo, Doc. _Bra-vo_.”

“You’re being a real asshole,” she says. Her eyes look a little moist and Ryan realizes something else: this bitch cries a _lot_.

“Holy fuck, you did it again,” Ryan says. He claps slowly, solemnly, though his shoulders jerk with unvoiced laughter. “You are brilliant, Gwenny-Gwen-Gwen.”

Her dark eyes spark with anger and she goes deathly still for a moment. Then she slaps him so hard his ears actually ring. Beside him, Joe whistles low. _That has to smart._

The anger that slides through Ryan is not a shock, it is not vicious or cruel; it does not burn him. It is like a soothing hand on his mind. It washes everything clean again. Every detail in the room stands out in vivid relief; he can even see the tiny pores in Gwen’s pretty face. They are little black holes sucking him in and swallowing him up.

When he punches her in the face, Joe breathes out a low moan. _Yes._ The sound of that one word rumbles like the dangerous purr of thunder. It reverberates all the way down Ryan’s spine.

Gwen cries out in pain and stumbles backward, going to one knee as she raises a hand to her face. Her nose is gushing blood and painting her mouth whore red. Ryan thinks it’s a good look for her.

“Ryan, stop,” she says as he advances toward her. “Ryan, please _don’t_.”

She gets to her feet and backs away. Ryan bares his teeth at her in a smile and moves quicker. Where does she think she’s going to go? He’s between her and the only exit unless she decides to jump out a window. That would be a huge disappointment if she took that route, too. He knows what he’s going to do, has known for a while now or at least entertained the idea.

 _You’re the most important thing in my life_ really meant, _I want to gut you like a fish and watch you flop._ He had tried to pretend it didn’t, but it did. It always has meant that unless he was saying it to Joe; the Joe of his dreams where he could find the courage to tell the truth. Then he finally did and the truth came too late, their time was up, their story was ending. One day, Ryan thinks he will tip his head back and scream about that. But not today. Today, he has other things to do.

So, he doesn’t say a word, just snatches out his hand and grabs a handful of her thick, soft hair. It shines where it curves around his fingers and he tightens his grip. There is a knife in his hip pocket, a knife he has carried for a while now. He stole it off of one of Lily Grey’s psycho children all that long time ago and kept it. A souvenir for his troubles. For his entertainment. It is a playbill with a razor-sharp edge.

He goes for that knife now as Gwen starts to weep. It is a beautiful sound, this kind of weeping, the kind that is only one sobbing breath away from becoming _begging_. He draws the knife from his pocket even as she tries to twist out of his grasp like an angry cat.

“Ryan, _please_ ,” she says again. “I’m pregnant.”

That effectively draws him up short and he stares at her. Her head is tipped back at a harsh angle because of the grip he has on her hair. Her eyes are wide, walling like those of a spooked horse. In this moment she has never been more beautiful to Ryan.

“What?” he asks.

“I’m _pregnant_ ,” she says again.

 _Dear, God, Ryan,_ Joe says.

“Shut up, Joe,” Ryan hisses at him.

Gwen goes stiff then, trembling for a different reason now. Her mouth opens and closes like that of a dying fish. Then she finds her will again and claws at his arm, digs at it where the sleeve of his coat has ridden up. Her nails gouge bloody furrows in his flesh, but he barely feels them. He is _thinking_ here.

Ryan’s logic asserts itself after only a few seconds. That logic is this: _Two birds, one stone. Good deal._

He snaps his wrist out and the blade of the knife pops free. Gwen looses a short, sharp scream at the sound and it goes through him on a wave of pleasure. He leans down and kisses her bloody mouth. Behind him, Joe grumbles, but he’s not listening right now.

“Oh. Goody. I guess that means I have to stop now, right?” he says, breath ruffling the blood on her face. He would swear he can see the minute ripples. “Because you said the magic words, huh? I mean, pregnant women or mothers _never, ever_ die, right, Doc?” Then he laughs.

“Ryan, don—”

Her voice cuts off in a strangled grunt as he swings his arm forward and into her belly. Gwen is the doctor here, but Ryan knows all about this kind of anatomy. The blade enters just below her sternum and then it’s only a quick jerk of his arm up and slightly to the left. He moans and gasps at the feel of her pounding heartbeat thrumming through the blade and down into his fingers like a tuning fork shiver. This is better than the best sex he has ever had.

Gwen’s no better than a mortally wounded deer now; the kill shot has been delivered. But these things take time, they really do. Her heart beats at a rapid pace, it pumps out blood like a fountain, but she’s not dead yet. Oh, no, not yet.

She’s gasping, stuttering and stumbling when he lets her go. Her eyes are big and wet. They are _betrayed_. Ryan knows she really thought he loved her. She thought he cared. He did try; he really, really did. Gwen with her sunny outlook and lovely bedside manner. Gwen with her stupid fucking cake pops.

Before Gwen’s heart can squirt out enough blood to end her, he cuts her throat. The arc of red catches the light like garnets lit from within and hits the wall behind her. He could have let the initial stab wound do the job, but it just wasn’t _wet_ enough to suit him.

He watches her slide down the wall with a bubbling rasp of breath. He gasps and then moans. He comes in his pants so hard it’s like a goddamn revelation. Joe’s breath is on the back of his neck, warm and sweet as he snakes his arms around Ryan’s waist. He holds him through his orgasm, his kisses on the side of his neck like little benedictions.

When it’s over, Ryan shakes his head and then surprises himself by laughing. Never has anything felt quite this good. All of the murders he has committed in the past don’t begin to compare. And yes, some of them were exactly that—murders. Those people didn’t _have_ to die. They died because Ryan willed it to be so. They were impersonal though, done for the sake of commodity and convenience. This one though—this was _fun_.

“I did it, Joe,” Ryan says. “Did you see?”

 _God, yes, I saw,_ Joe says, mouth right next to his ear. _You were beautiful._

They take a moment then to really look at Gwen sprawled there, still wet with blood, smelling like a slaughterhouse sacrifice.

 _Have you ever noticed that when the arc is just so that it almost looks like a wing?_ Joe asks. He gestures over Ryan’s shoulder at the arterial spray on the wall. _It’s not quite right, but close. It needs a sharper arc right there._ He waves his hand toward the center of the spray pattern.

“I can fix it,” Ryan says. He steps away from Joe to the wall and nudges Gwen’s body out of his way so he can reach better. Then he drags his fingers through the still-wet blood and fixes the arch of the wing. He pulls his fingertip through the blood, making little approximations of feathers just for the fuck of it.

 _Lovely,_ Joe breathes and Ryan agrees.

He takes in the mess then, _really_ looks at it. It doesn’t matter much, he likes it and honestly, he feels better, like he’s just been to a productive therapy session. Though he has no idea how he’s going to get those stains out of the carpet. Although, he reasons in his boozy way, he is now a fugitive—there is no one to blame for this except himself. Ryan figures since that is the case he should at least have some more fun then. So he goes into the kitchen. He takes a paring knife from the knife block because he needs finer control here. He goes back to the living room, kneels beside Gwen’s cooling body and begins the task of removing her eyes. Joe is so proud and he tells Ryan so while he removes each of her dark brown, death-clouded eyes.

Once he is finished with his final task—his final exam—Ryan drags Gwen’s corpse into the guest bathroom and deposits it in the bathtub. He closes the shower curtain around it and then goes back to the living room.

“What a fucking mess,” he says. He presses his foot down on the carpet, listens to it squish.

 _I believe your abode is effectively no longer viable,_ Joe says.

“I take that to mean you agree,” Ryan says.

 _Absolutely,_ Joe says.

“Well…” Ryan stops for a drink. When he’s done, he continues: “I need a nap. I’ll worry about the rest later.”

 _Are you sure that’s wise?_ Joe asks.

“No,” Ryan says. “But I’ve got a little time here and I’m going to take it. It’s best if I’m sober before I go on the lam, you know.”

 _Good point,_ Joe says. He leans in close to Ryan and whispers, _Let’s go to bed then._

Ryan shivers and nods before leading the way back to the bedroom.

In the dimmest reaches of his mind, he is amazed at how well—how _easily_ —he is taking to this new life choice. Then again, it’s not all that new, not really. He just let himself off the leash, got the final signature on his permission slip to go on a fieldtrip into the darkest parts of himself. It feels _good_.

He sprawls out on top of the covers and drinks until his head is drooping like a wilting flower. Beside him, Joe hums something by Beethoven though damned if Ryan knows what piece it is. It’s a shame he can remember crap like Garth Brooks, but not the works of the old masters. He’s such a philistine.

He snorts soft, drunken laughter and leans against Joe. “I miss you,” he says.

 _I’m right here, darling,_ Joe says. _How many times do I have to tell you that?_

“Until it’s true,” Ryan says then yawns.

 _Pass me that, huh?_ Joe says.

“Sure,” Ryan says. He hands over the pint of Jameson’s and closes his eyes while he listens to Joe drink.

That is how he falls asleep, content and at home and totally destroyed because there is a sane part of him left that knows this is all one long, wonderful dream that he will eventually have to wake up from. He makes a pained sound in his sleep, but then Joe is there and he’s dancing him around a burning room while people scream and roast. It’s the best he can ask for.

Beside him, the bottle of whiskey leaks its amber dregs onto the comforter.

**II**

Death’s trumpet should not be the shrill ringing of a phone, of this Joe is absolutely certain. He grimaces, offended even in death. Then he takes a deep breath and his head shrieks with pain. Death should be quiet and cool; eternal, unaware darkness that stretches on into forever. It should not feel like a migraine mated with the worst hangover he’s ever had and birthed a mutant infant of terrible proportions.

Then again, Joe should not be _breathing_ either.

That kicks his muzzy brain into gear and he opens his eyes to the fluorescent blue-white glow of a cell phone’s display screen. At this moment, it is the closest to being the light of God that he can imagine—a God he can touch and believe in. There is a mask over his face, hissing oxygen into his aching lungs. Above him is the cardboard lid of his cheap prison-issue pauper’s coffin. It does not take a genius to figure out he’s been buried alive and the thought is awful, it is horrifying.

He snatches for the phone beside his right hand and picks it up with shaking fingers. He has to take the mask off to speak and that’s even scarier. He is glad not to be dead, but appalled at having been buried anyway. He wonders if this is one last cruel trick, one last punishment with a kiss of irony, for the comparisons to Poe do not elude him. It’s as though his brain, full of fiery pain as it is, cannot help but make the comparisons. _Berenice_. _The Fall of the House of Usher_. _The Cask of Amontillado_.

He answers the phone with something that sounds like, “Merf.” His throat is dry and even it aches now, rubbed brittle and raw by the oxygen forced into his lungs.

“Mr. Carroll, we were beginning to worry. We’ve been calling for a couple of hours now. I was beginning to fear we’d given you too much,” the voice on the other end says. It’s a man, his voice faintly accented and pleasant. It goes through Joe’s head like a buzz saw he is in so much pain. His stomach has joined in the act and is doing circus performance worthy somersaults now.

“What?” Joe manages.

“We feel that world is better with you in it, sir,” the man says. “So we orchestrated a way for you to carry on. It was a lot of work, but we persevered and it panned out. We replaced the drugs meant to kill you with extracts of mostly belladonna with a dash of hemlock so you would appear to not be breathing. The hemlock was a risk, but it did what it was supposed to do, I see. We are very glad.”

“What?” Joe says again. Christ, he feels stupid. He knows a smidgen about hemlock, about how it paralyzes the respiratory system. He had to have been able to breathe some, but clearly it was a enough that to the naked eye, he didn’t seem to be. The belladonna made him sleep; the hemlock retarded his respiration. He appeared dead.

“You’re going to be okay, sir,” the man says. “We’ve provided for you as best we can. There is a knife beneath your lower back, use that to cut open the coffin lid. Wear the mask and use the oxygen so you don’t suffocate in the soil. When you’re free, go to the east and into the trees. Fifty paces in, you will find a bag with clothes and some cash. What you do after that is up to you.”

“Not to sound ungrateful, but who in the bloody hell are you people?” Joe asks. Good, that’s good—he managed a whole sentence.

“We’re fans,” the man says. “That’s all you need to know. Unfortunately, we cannot be more involved in this, though we would love to be. However, we have lives and reputations to protect.”

Joe snorts.

“Please, Mr. Carroll, you need to go soon,” the man says. “You slept much longer than we calculated you would; your oxygen will run out soon. Hurry.”

He hangs up then and Joe is left in utter darkness, alone and confused and almost as afraid as he was when the drugs began to take effect. He can still see Ryan’s face. He looked grief-stricken and that had pained Joe; he had wanted to go to him and tell him all would be well. Then though he had believed that to be a lie and he couldn’t move anyway. It was the most awful experience of his life, but he’d taken heart in having been able to tell Ryan goodbye. He meant to make him his though, not break his brain and seeing him in the viewing room through that glass, he thought he had made a mistake. But oh, that means Ryan truly does care and that’s something, isn’t it? Yes, Joe thinks it is.

He puts on his mask and squirms around as best he can within the tight confines of his casket. He finds the knife and pops the blade free then stabs the lid of the coffin. The first incision brings a small shower of soil, but by the time he’s got a hole big enough to worm through the casket is filling with moist earth. That he may end up buried here anyway is a real possibility and the panic makes Joe forget his headache and his other fears. He digs up, a giant mole seeking light and air that isn’t coming from the little canister he doggedly drags along. Air that is beginning to stutter here and there. The oxygen really is running out and he might suffocate, too. It only spurs him on faster.

When his head breaks the surface, it is instantly drenched with freezing rain. Nothing has ever felt as good as the frigid water on his dirty face. This is like being born again. He scrabbles and struggles his way free of the hole then lays there on the ground for a moment, filthy with the afterbirth of this. It clings to him in muddy clods and streaks; the hair-fine tendrils of feeler roots waving in the whipping breeze. A centipede crawls down the side of his face and decides to take a bite right on his jaw. Joe’s first act of living is to crush the offensive creature then smear its remains on the grass.

At length, he rouses himself enough to stand and his head swims even as it throbs and pounds. His stomach flips again. He was given poison, after all; carefully controlled doses of it, but enough that he’s still feeling the effects. He feels them so keenly that he bends and the waist and vomits all over his bare feet; a thin gruel of bile and water and his last cup of coffee. It occurs to him only now that he was not given a last meal. How damned rude of them all.

Then he shuffles away to the east where the bag supposedly awaits with his clothes and cash. He counts to fifty once he breaks into the trees and soon, he finds a blaze orange backpack stuffed with clothing, there is even a plain black ball cap for him to pull low over his face. There is a thick envelope full of cash in one of the smaller zipper pockets, too, as promised. Joe is immensely grateful to his anonymous resurrectionists though he does wonder when they will come calling, expecting repayment for their favor.

Joe dresses in the downpour, his clean new clothes drenched in no time, but it still feels good to be out of that dreadful prison uniform. He’s a bit more careful about putting on his shoes though because there’s really nothing worse than soggy sneakers. Done with all of that, he stuffs the hated prison orange clothing into the backpack and picks it up to take with him. He will have to dispose of it somewhere along the way though the fact he’s dug out of his grave will be hard to miss.

Which means he needs to hurry; it is dark out now, but the sun will rise again, just as it always does. Someone will definitely notice then. He goes deeper into the woods; on the other side of the trees he has heard the faint sound of an eighteen wheeler going by. There is road somewhere in this direction and he is determined to find it.

For a moment, he panics all over again: Where will he go? What will he do? Aside from the anonymous man on the phone, all of his followers are lost to him now. Then he pauses. That isn’t right; there’s still one left. The most important of them all.

Out there in this great big world is Ryan Hardy and Joe knows now without a doubt that he will take him in and help him. Ryan is not only his soulmate. He is _everything_ ; he is Joe’s creature almost as much as Joe is Ryan’s. This was meant to be, he knows that now. Ryan will be so delighted to see him.

Joe smiles and picks up his pace, melting into the rain-whipped darkness. A free man with a pulse and a mission. He is going to the one place he has always and only wanted to be. He is going home.

**III**

Ryan has a blissful two days of peace and quiet, Joe his only company. Sometimes they don’t speak, they only sit across from one another and stare. It’s the closest to happy Ryan has ever been. Down the hallway, Gwen and her embryo rot away. She’s starting to smell, a faint, sick-sweet odor, but Ryan doesn’t mind it too bad for now. He shut the bathroom door and that helped block out the worst of it though tendrils of her stink still slip into the air of the apartment. He doesn’t notice it that much anymore though. He is getting used to it.

His phone rang incessantly for the first day, but he finally smashed it on the floor of the kitchen. He crunches through the shards of it every time he goes in there to get a fresh bottle. For a supposedly reformed alcoholic, he sure did have a lot of liquor. It’s like he was planning for the day he finally took a header off the wagon.

He’s musing on that and considering making a bowl of oatmeal when the knocking starts at the door. He grimaces and covers his ears.

“Ryan? Hey, Ryan?” Mike’s voice travels through the wood easily.

Joe sneers, his upper lip curling back to show his teeth. He looks feral. He looks exquisite. Joe never has liked Mike, Ryan knows this. They talked about it in the boozy early morning hours just today. Mike must be a mind reader. He also has shitty fucking timing. Ryan does not want to be disturbed. The fact he has not answered his phone in forty eight hours should have been the first clue, but apparently not.

“Just a minute!” Ryan calls back. His voice is harsher than he means for it to be, but them’s the breaks.

He goes to the door and opens it to the sight of Mike’s young face and big blue eyes. He looks a touch harried. Behind him, Joe makes a sound almost like the hiss of an angry cat. Ryan has determined Joe was jealous of Mike and no matter how much he’s tried to convince him there’s nothing to be jealous of, Joe doesn’t seem to have bought it.

“If it isn’t little Mikey Weston,” Ryan says with a smile.

That cheers Joe up and he nuzzles the back of Ryan’s neck. _I always knew you paid attention._

Mike, on the other hand, looks taken aback at those words coming out of Ryan’s mouth. Then he blinks and his expression settles back into the earlier one—the harried one.

“Ryan,” Mike says. Then he stops and his eyes get big again as he looks Ryan over. “Jesus. How drunk are you right now?”

“Very,” Ryan says simply. “You gonna stand in the hall or are you gonna come in?”

Mike grunts and shakes his head, but steps inside when Ryan moves out of the doorway and sweeps his arm out in invitation.

“To what do I owe the honor?” Ryan asks as he follows behind Mike. He’s got his hand in his pocket, palming the knife. There’s no lie to cover this up, which means Mike is going to have to go.

 _How terribly sad._ Joe’s voice is crackling with restrained glee. It makes Ryan smile.

Mike doesn’t go all the way into the living room though. He stops a few feet shy of the mouth of the entryway and turns back to Ryan. He is really agitated, coming out of his skin with nerves or excitement. Ryan wonders what’s up with him; he is still a curious soul after all.

“Someone stole Joe’s body,” Mike says. He is annoyed and dismayed, it’s written all over his tired little boy face. “They found the grave the morning after they buried him. The assholes just called it in an hour ago to tell us though.” He takes out his phone and comes toward Ryan. “Here, look.”

He shoves the phone in Ryan’s face before he can even snap out the, _What?!_ that’s scalding his tongue. He takes it and looks at the picture on the screen. It is of Joe’s grave, bare earth, no flowers, no tombstone to mark its place. There is a ragged hole roughly in the middle of the grave. Ryan scrolls through the rest of the pictures, trying to piece together what he is seeing and not quite believing.

The grave doesn’t look like someone broke into it. It looks like someone dug out of it.

 _Oh, my,_ Joe says. He is looking over Ryan’s shoulder. _Did I do that?_

“ _How_ did you do that?” Ryan asks. Now he’s the one that is agitated. If what he is seeing is real then that means… that means… It can’t be. It _can’t_. The possibility of hope ferrets around in his innards, trying to crawl up his throat on a laugh. He won’t let himself do that though. Hope like this is tantamount to suicide because if he’s wrong, it will kill him.

“I didn’t do anything, Ryan,” Mike says. “Grave robbers dug him up and stole the damned body.” Mike wrinkles his nose. “Why would anyone want that monster?”

Joe snarls behind him, no longer an angry cat, but a starving wolf, hungry for blood. Ryan knows how he feels. He wants to tell Mike, _I want him._ He does not though, he holds his tongue and only gives Mike a flat, dead-eyed look that makes him uncomfortable if the way he shifts his weight from foot to foot is any indication.

Ryan also will not tell Mike that no one dug Joe up no more than he will let himself believe Joe clawed his way out. Mike is a bright boy, he will figure that out eventually. How could he not? It’s all right there.

Ryan shakes his head. _No_. He won’t think it. Joe is dead and he’s never coming back and Ryan should have done _something_ to save him. He doesn’t know what now any better than he did then because he thought about it. He racked his brain to try and come up with some way to save Joe. All he did though is fail.

 _Stop it, Ryan,_ Joe says. _You’ve got me. We’ve been over this. I’ll be right here forever if that’s how long you will have me._

It’s so sweet it feels like someone just yanked his heart halfway out of his chest.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Ryan says as he passes the phone back to Mike. He puts his hand back in his pocket after Mike has taken the phone. He could let Mike walk right out of here, but he doesn’t want to.

Joe puts his hands on his shoulders, gives an encouraging squeeze. He can feel his breath ruffle through his hair a second before he kisses the back of his head.

Mike still looks uncomfortable, has looked increasingly so since he walked in the door.

“Everything okay, Mikey?” Ryan asks. He should at least have some fun with this before it comes to its inevitable, messy conclusion.

Mike hesitates then shrugs. “What’s that smell, Ryan? It’s awful.”

Ryan laughs and smiles, which seems to make Mike relax.

“Oh, that’s Gwen,” he says. “She’s reached her expiration date. Imagine what it’s going to smell like in here in a couple more days. Nasty, right?”

Mike recoils from him after a split second of letting his gears whirr and turn. Ryan sees it when it clicks that he really is serious. 

“What the hell happened?” Mike asks.

That, too, is sweet. He doesn’t want to believe what he is pretty sure he already knows. Ryan almost feels sorry for him.

“Well, you see, it was like this,” Ryan says as he steps toward Mike. “I went out and had a few drinks with Joe. Gwen didn’t like that very much. She called me an asshole and she slapped me. So, I stabbed her in the heart then I cut her fucking throat. She’s in the guest bathroom now.” Ryan shrugs and laughs. “ _Oops_.”

“Oh, my God, Ryan,” Mike says. He’s talking fast. He is trying to _manage the situation_. Mike is trying to _handle_ Ryan because he’s dangerous. Honestly, Ryan resents the fuck out of someone trying to handle him like he’s an unruly pet. “I can’t… Why would you… Joe is dead. You’re sick. Look, let me help you, okay? You were under a lot of stress and snapped. You probably won’t do that much time. They’ll probably put you in a psych hospital, not prison. It’ll be okay.”

 _Is he serious?_ Joe asks. _It’s almost impressive how loyal to you he still is even in the face of this._

“He’s a nice kid, Joe. I’ve been trying to tell you that,” Ryan says.

Except Mike isn’t so nice anymore, no. He’s been poisoned by the Ryan Hardy Kool-Aid he’s been drinking since the first day they met. But he drank too deeply and it has steered him awry. Because of that, Mike nearly got Max killed. Max _does_ matter to Ryan where Mike has outlived his usefulness. It’s only now that he fully understands that Mike, like Emma for Joe, has always been expendable.

 _Glad to see you’ve caught up,_ Joe says. _Now kill him, please. I’d do it myself, but, well…_

“Joe Carroll is _dead_!” Mike’s voice is sudden and loud in the entryway. He’s almost in the living room now though. Soon he will see the mess in the carpet, the red wing on the wall.

“No, he isn’t,” Ryan says as he takes the knife from his pocket and snaps the blade out with an audible click. “He’s right here.”

Mike automatically reaches for the sidearm that isn’t there. He’s not on the clock; he was probably lolling around his apartment in his underwear when the call came in about Joe’s body. Like a good soldier, Mike rushed right out to tell Ryan all about the newest bunch of shit Joe has stirred up because Ryan takes precedent over anyone else. Ryan is who Mike truly works for, not the Bureau. He might have outlived his usefulness, but Ryan thinks he is still going to miss Mike Weston the littlest bit. It’s nice to have a lapdog.

“Ryan, don’t,” Mike says. He takes a fighting stance, ready to do battle with Ryan over this.

“Gwen said the exact same thing,” Ryan says. He waves the knife at Mike. “It’s like some kind of script, I swear.”

“Don’t make me hurt you,” Mike says.

He has a good point, Ryan is drunk and Mike isn’t taken by surprise the way Gwen was. Unlike her, Mike will not try to barter for his life first. Ryan taught him too well for all of that.

What Ryan needs right now is a better plan of action. Joe murmurs his agreement and tips his head toward the knife in Ryan’s hand. Ryan gets what he’s going for and a second later, he drops the knife on the floor.

“You got me,” Ryan says with a wry smile. “I fucked up, Mike, I fucked up so bad.”

Mike still looks wary, but he relaxes a fraction. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll… I’ll make sure you get the help you need.”

He comes toward Ryan, not realizing he doesn’t have his cuffs on him either. It’s so easy to allow things like the presence of a gun or handcuffs on your belt to become the accepted norm. Even when they’re not there, you still think they are. Ryan can sympathize with that, he really can.

Ryan lunges for him when Mike has closed most of the distance between them. He’s drunk, but it hasn’t slowed him down much. He wants to do this. He _needs_ to do this, in fact.

The impact carries them both backward and they hit the floor with a thud and slide partly into the living room. Mike is already grappling with Ryan, his fingers at his throat, clawing and trying to find a grip. Ryan’s left knee hurts like a son of a bitch, but it is also doing a fine job of pinning Mike’s other arm. He sits up enough to get some room then brings his fist down on Mike’s face. He does it again and again and again. Mike’s face disappears under a network of blood and still, he tries to fight Ryan off. He’s a gamey little fucker and Ryan can respect that at least.

Mike gets his other arm free from Ryan’s knee and clocks him hard across the cheek. Ryan’s head snaps to the side and he tastes blood, which makes him smile.

 _Kill him, Ryan!_ Joe’s voice is loud, anxious. He’s worried that Ryan might lose this fight.

“Bullshit,” Ryan mutters, drooling a mouthful of blood down his chin.

He grabs the sides of Mike’s head, picks him up then slams him back down on the floor. His skull makes a sick cracking sound that’s like music to Ryan’s ears so he does it again. After the fourth time, Mike finally goes still. He has clawed the ever-loving hell out of the side of Ryan’s face and he thinks his right ear is bleeding from a tear in the thin skin where it attaches to his head. The little bastard tried to rip it off.

Mike still isn’t dead; Ryan can hear the rattle and bubble of his breath through his bloody nose. He’s out like a light though and that gives Ryan a minute to think.

 _Finish it,_ Joe says.

“I will, I will, calm down,” Ryan says. “When did you turn into such a nag, Joe?”

Joe looks affronted, crosses his arms and actually turns his back on Ryan.

“Aww, hey, c’mon, don’t be a bitch,” Ryan says.

Joe only graces him with a growling _harrumph_.

Ryan rolls his eyes and gets up, winces at the pain in his knee before he stoops down, takes Mike by his wrists then begins to drag him the rest of the way into the living room. He moves the coffee table then stretches Mike out in the middle of the floor nice and neat. When he goes back to get his knife, Joe is still sulking and Ryan goes to him, puts his hand on his shoulder.

“Come and see,” Ryan says. “I’ll make it good, I swear.”

Joe huffs out a breath then nods. Ryan is forgiven and together, they go back into the living room.

“Watch,” Ryan says.

Joe nods and leans against the side of a club chair and waves his hand for Ryan to carry on.

Ryan uses the knife to collapse both of Mike’s lungs, pushing it in slowly, feeling them deflate like meat balloons. There’s a lot of blood for two rather small punctures; oxygen-rich lung blood—bright, bright red against the grey of Mike’s t-shirt, the grimy cream of the carpet.

He sits in the chair and puts his shaking hands on his knees. He’s so hard it fucking hurts, but he will not touch himself. He doesn’t really need to, not anymore, not when it’s this kind of porn.

Mike’s chest hitches and jerks, he makes a terrible garbling sound as his body suffocates and tries to fight it. Ryan begins to sweat and moans low in the back of his throat. Mike’s back arches and he thrashes once, twice then is at last still. His eyes, swollen with bruising, are wide open, his head turned at such an angle he’s looking at Ryan’s shoes.

Ryan bites his lip when he comes and tastes more blood, fresh as his teeth cut into the flesh. Joe groans and sinks down into a crouch beside him. He leans close and whispers in Ryan’s ear.

_Death has reared himself a throne._

“I thought you were over Poe.”

_I might’ve lied a little bit._

Ryan smiles and leans into the touch of Joe’s hand on his cheek.

“Say it again,” he murmurs.

Joe does as he asks and recites the first handful of lines. Then he kisses the corner of Ryan’s mouth.

 _We can’t stay here any longer,_ Joe says. _I know it and you know it._

“Yeah,” Ryan says. He even packed a bag last night. He was planning on leaving tonight, but Mike’s crappy timing has moved up his departure time.

Joe holds his hands down to Ryan. _Come on then,_ he says.

Ryan smiles up at him and takes his hands, lets Joe tug him up from the chair—from his throne—and goes to take care of last minute details. He’s not sure where he’s going to go, but he’s got a pretty good idea. Theo is still out there and ground zero for finding him is in Philadelphia. Gwen was an amusement and Mike was a necessity. What Ryan really craves though is a heavyweight fight.

**IV**

Joe is in Maryland, some little backwater town not too far outside of Baltimore, when he hears the news about Ryan. The broadcast comes on as he is eating a basket of surprisingly tasty popcorn shrimp. He’s got his head ducked into the collar of a coat he stole from a diner right on the state line, his hat is pulled down as low as he can get it and still see. At the mention of Ryan’s name coming from the television, he jerks his head up without thought.

_Ryan Hardy, the FBI’s golden boy responsible for bringing down the likes of Joe Carroll and Arthur Strauss is wanted in connection to the murders of FBI agent, Mike Weston and Hardy’s girlfriend whose name has not been released at the request of her family. The bodies were found by Hardy’s niece, Max Hardy, this morning when she stopped by the apartment to check on him. Authorities say Ryan Hardy is not a suspect at this time, he is only wanted for questioning._

“My, my,” Joe says to himself with a little smile.

He knows without a doubt that Ryan is responsible for those deaths. The authorities know it, too; saying someone is wanted for questioning or is a person of interest in an ongoing investigation is code for _prime suspect_. Such things are fed to the media in the hope the wanted person will see it and be lulled into a false sense of security. If they feel no one suspects them of anything then they are far more likely to offer their cooperation. Though when they show up, what usually happens is they are read their rights and handcuffed. Not necessarily in that order. Joe has no love lost for police institutions, none at all.

Joe also knows that Ryan is smart enough not to bite at that particular hook. It’s all quite silly to try and play one of the oldest tricks in the book on a law enforcement agent. Do they think Ryan is stupid? The very idea annoys Joe, but at the moment he is more concerned about Ryan’s health and safety. And also where he is. Joe knows where he lives—lived—but now that Ryan is in the wind, so is Joe. This worries him immensely, he fears that Ryan is not thinking clearly and might do something rash, which could end with his being captured or even worse, killed.

That will never do.

Joe pays for his meal and the two beers he drank then leaves the little dingy pub to seek out a place to stay for the night. He found false identification in the pocket of his jeans and that’s nice. The fact his face is on that identification is not. Of course, Joe Carroll is dead and that’s something he needs to remember. People might think he looks like the man, they might even be a bit frightened by the resemblance, but he must maintain that he is not who he looks like. There is still the problem of his grave robbery also having made the news though. Any idiot with eyes in their head could tell it wasn’t a robbery, but more of an… escape. Yes, escape; Joe likes that.

He finds a motel that takes cash and doesn’t ask for I.D. The woman at the counter gives him a sidelong glance and he smiles at her. There is a knife in his pocket should he need to use it. He’s already got his hand around it. Then she shakes her head—shakes off the niggling little thought about the man in front of her—and passes him the key to his room. It’s a real key, too, not a key card.

That night he sips from a bottle of DeWar’s scotch—a splurge, but damnit, he wanted a drink—and watches the news again. Ryan’s car was found at a rest area on the Vermont border. The body of a salesman from Maine was found in a bathroom stall, his neck broken and his wallet missing. The last credit card activity from Ryan was not long after the police suspect he fled New York; he withdrew large amounts of cash from several ATMs in his neighborhood. The last time it was used, it was by a homeless woman who said he gave the card to her.

Ryan is covering his tracks, Joe thinks and smiles again. This is one of the many reasons Joe loves him to the point of madness. Once he finds Ryan, he is going to make this right and do what he spent far too long only thinking about. He gets tipsy while fantasizing about running away with Ryan and living in anonymity with him until they are old and grey. He thinks maybe he will suggest they go somewhere with mountains and miles of silence between one place and the next; maybe Montana.

Joe unzips his jeans, takes his cock in his hand and gives it a light stroke. He thinks they will buy a small house and become the neighbors no one ever sees much of. He works his hand quicker, pleasure rising in a rush through him at the idea this could be his and soon. He imagines that once in a while, someone from a town or two over will go missing and people will fret and worry. He moans and thinks that while the townspeople are in an uproar, he and Ryan will be licking the blood off each others hands. Joe comes with a gasping moan as he thinks of it as their happily ever after.

He tidies himself up after that then curls up in the bed that is full of squeaking springs and soft spots. It is still better than that slab he had to sleep on in prison.

The next morning, the first thing Joe does is turn on the television and flip through channels until he finds a news station. The murdered salesman’s car was found early this morning in Rhode Island. Joe cocks his head at that, that’s in the opposite direction of where Ryan stole the car. A waitress in a truck stop restaurant outside of Providence came forward as well. She claims to have seen Ryan not long after the car was dumped. She says he left in a blue four door sedan.

Joe growls through his teeth. That meddlesome little bitch. He tries to tell himself that perhaps she is wrong, but he doesn’t truly believe that. It still doesn’t answer the two most important questions though: Why is Ryan backtracking? Where is he going?

Then Joe sits up straight and slaps the mattress. “Damnit, Ryan,” he says as he gets up to throw on his clothes and get on the road again.

He knows exactly where Ryan is going and once he gets there, he’s going to happily stick his head in the crocodile’s mouth. When Joe told him about Philadelphia and Theo’s connection to the city, he did so with the honest belief that Ryan would sally forth with all the might of the FBI behind him. But no, now he’s gone round the bend—and fine, _fine_ , Joe accepts he might be to blame for that a little bit—and has decided to play cowboy.

What Ryan is doing now is a suicide mission. The thought draws Joe up and he grimaces when he thinks that might just be the point.

“No, Ryan. No, no, no,” he says under his breath as he slams out the motel room and takes off across the parking lot to the office. He drops the key on the counter then turns and is gone again, headed toward the interstate. He needs to catch a ride to Philly before Ryan does something so massively stupid that it can never be undone.

**V**

In Philadelphia, Ryan allows himself to be seen a few times. It’s risky, but it needs to be done. He knows Theo is watching, so Ryan wants to give him something to see.

He hits the mother lode on his second day there and counts his lucky stars. There’s a news crew standing on the street near an intersection where there has been a terrible accident. An eighteen wheeler ran a red light and plowed into a minivan carrying a church choir on their way to dinner. They were in town for some kind of choral competition. Ryan thinks of it as, _Who can praise Jesus the loudest?_ and snorts ugly laughter while he takes in the glitter and gleam of busted safety glass floating in pools of blood and diesel.

He foregoes anymore gawping at the crime scene and saunters down the street casually. He’s wearing a hat, the collar of his coat is turned up, but as he goes behind the newscaster, he folds down the collar. He takes off his hat. Then he turns and looks right over the reporter’s shoulder, into the eye of the camera and raises his hand in a little wave. The cameraman catches sight of him, but Ryan is already gone, jogging down the street and turning into an alley before the man can say a word.

 _That was bloody dangerous,_ Joe says when they’re a couple of streets over.

“I’ve got this,” Ryan says.

 _I am really starting to wonder if you do,_ Joe says.

“Well, don’t, it’s fine,” Ryan says. “I’m handling it.”

Joe shakes his head and walks away toward the old warehouse they’ve holed up in. Ryan follows, he’s ready for a drink and a can of soup heated on the little camp stove he lifted from a sporting goods store in Rhode Island.

On his third night in the city, he buys a prepaid cell phone and calls Max. He does it for two reasons: To hear her voice and tell her he is okay and because he knows Theo is bound to have bugged her phone. He really wants to get the message across that he’s coming for him, just in case Theo hasn’t figured that out already. Ryan and subtlety never have been bosom buddies though. It’s a little thing that cannot be helped.

“Ryan, oh my God,” Max exclaims when she hears his voice. “Where they hell are you? It’s bedlam here. They’re saying you killed Mike and Gwen and they won’t listen to me. Ryan, what—”

“I’m okay,” Ryan says. “Everything is going to be okay. We’re handling it.”

“We? Who’s with you?” Max asks.

Ryan bites his lip. He fucked up. No one is supposed to know about Joe. “I meant _I’m_ handling it.”

“Handling _what_?” Max sounds borderline hysterical and a little drunk.

Ryan is not surprised, he has smelled whiskey on her more and more often lately. She’s carrying on the Hardy family tradition of drinking herself to death. He sips from his bottle and thinks he has no room to talk though he is sorry for Max. She drank his poisoned Kool-Aid, too, but it has made her sick in a different way.

“I’m… tying up some loose ends,” Ryan says.

“Tell me what happened to Gwen and Mike,” Max says. “Please… please don’t say—”

“Of course I didn’t do it,” Ryan says. He even gets the wounded annoyance in his tone just right. Max will eventually know better, but he won’t do that to her now, not yet.

“Then come in and tell them what happened,” Max says. “They’re calling you a murderer.”

“It’ll be okay, Max,” Ryan says. “I need to go for now though. Take care of yourself. I love you.”

“Ryan! Ryan, don’t hang—”

He closes the flip phone and leans back against the wall. Joe pats his leg consolingly then sighs.

_This is ridiculous, Ryan._

“No, it isn’t,” Ryan says.

_No, you’re absolutely right, it’s fucking stupid is what it is._

“I told you: I’ve got this,” Ryan says.

 _He will kill you the first chance he gets,_ Joe says. _This isn’t happy hour._

“I know,” Ryan says.

He cannot see a reason to carry on anyway though he has no real intention of letting Theo murder him. If it happens, then it happens, but Ryan intends to make sure it doesn’t. It’s the _after_ that Ryan thinks he might have to go gently into that good night. It will be a relief. Sure, he’s got Joe, but he isn’t real, no matter how much Ryan wants to believe—and almost does most of the time—that he is.

 _You know how this works,_ Joe says. He sounds tired and a little sad.

“If I die, you die,” Ryan says. “Yeah, Joe, I know.”

_Is that what you want?_

“I want it never to have happened in the first place, but I can’t change it,” Ryan says. “I don’t see many options left now.”

Gwen would be appalled and wounded to see how easily Ryan opens up and _shares_ with Joe. She never knew though that Joe is the only person he’s ever even come close to being himself with. He doesn’t trust anyone else enough. There is still the tiny, flickering hope that Joe did drag himself up out of his grave and is out there somewhere, alive and well. Ryan still believes he is lost to him now though, Joe will go as far underground as he can get and that means he will stay away from Ryan. He knows Joe, knows that it will not be an easy thing for him to do, but for his own safety, Ryan wants him to do it anyway.

_What, exactly, are you planning on doing?_

“I’m going to rip his fucking head off. Then… then I don’t know,” Ryan says. He might want to die and Theo is a viable option for that, but he’d rather do it himself. Theo is just a bonus.

 _Oh, Ryan,_ Joe says. He lays his head on Ryan’s shoulder. Ryan strokes his hair and drinks in silence.

A few minutes later, the phone begins to ring. Ryan smiles into the darkness and reaches for it.

**VI**

Philadelphia is a large city and despite Ryan making a bit of a spectacle out of himself initially, Joe still has no idea where to begin looking for him. He gets so desperate at one point he considers walking the streets, calling his name. That’s all a bit too melodramatic for his tastes though and an excellent way to draw heaps of unwanted attention to himself.

He’s standing in a gas station bathroom, counting his dwindling cash when he has an epiphany. Joe might not know how to find Ryan, but he knows exactly how to locate Theo. In this strange little steeple chase of theirs, Theo has become the middleman, their shared goal. Their common enemy. Joe is certain that if he finds Theo then he will also find Ryan.

Joe uses some of his remaining cash to purchase a burner phone from the gas station. He gets correct change for the bus and asks for directions to the nearest stop. From there, he struggles to work out the bus system and finally lands himself on the appropriate one. He is annoyed at having spent so much on bus fare, at having had to stand crammed into a glorified tin can next to winos and crazy people. Joe might not be sane—he accepts this—but he does not skimp on soap and clean clothing.

He brushes himself off with a soft, “Ugh,” when he finally exits the bus that took him to the right neighborhood. The house he is looking for is five blocks away and he needs to pick up his pace, the buses wasted a lot of valuable time. The idea that he might be too late does cross his mind, but Joe refuses to accept that. He will be damned if there are going to be any, _O! Happy dagger!_ moments in his and Ryan’s story.

The ratty old house that Theo struggled through his formative years in sits exactly where Joe knew it would be. Strauss talked to him more than he did any of his other students. While Joe might have been an epic fuck-up in Strauss’s eyes in a lot of ways, he was also one of his first and brightest. He got a touch sentimental where Joe was concerned.

The thought makes Joe’s belly shiver with revulsion when he thinks about it. He is aware that Ryan thought he would be upset to hear of Strauss’s passing, but about that one thing, Ryan was dead wrong. Joe was glad to hear he was dead. Arthur Strauss liked to take repayment for his favors in flesh. Joe can still feel him pressed against his back sometimes if he thinks about it for any length of time. He never wanted that, not from Strauss anyway and Strauss had known it. It is why he took it every chance he got until Joe was old enough to tell him no and mean it.

The house is well-preserved and tended to, it has fared far better than many of the other houses here. That is because Theo keeps it up, he maintains his old homestead. The house is in good shape, but the feeling of emptiness it has comes off it like a cold wind. Joe goes around to the back and kicks the door in then strides into the tiny mud room and onward.

There is no furniture in the house though the walls are painted a cool grey, the carpet is plush. It’s ready to be lived in should the necessity present itself. Joe does wonder how much money Theo has at his disposal. Then again, if he’s as good with computers as he clearly seems to be then money is no object whatsoever. What he does not earn on his own, he can steal from billions of unsuspecting souls.

Joe finds what he is looking for in the living room. The camera is mounted in the corner and faces the center of the room. He was counting on this. Joe takes a receipt and a pen out of his coat pocket and writes down the burner phone’s number. He holds it up to the camera, close enough it is easily read. Then he steps back and smiles at the camera right before he gives it the finger. He turns and walks away again, out into the chilly early evening air and to the sidewalk.

He hasn’t gone half a block before his phone rings.

“You broke my door,” Theo says.

“Terribly sorry,” Joe says. “I needed to get in, you see and there wasn’t a key to be found.”

“What do you want, Joe?” Theo asks.

“Don’t you want to know how it is I’m not dead after all?” Joe asks.

“No,” Theo says. “I don’t care about that. I want to know what you want. You didn’t break into my house on a lark.”

“You’re quite right about that,” Joe says. “I want to talk to you about Ryan Hardy.”

Theo laughs, low and soft, the sound worming into Joe’s ear. He doesn’t like it one bit.

“Do you?” Theo asks. “What if I told you Ryan Hardy is already dead?”

Joe stops so suddenly he sways in place. He swallows and keeps his voice calm when he says, “I’d say you’re a liar.”

“Maybe,” Theo says. “Maybe not. But I’ll do you favor—one colleague to another—and let you see for yourself.” He gives Joe an address. “Be there tonight and don’t be late, Joe.” He hangs up on him and Joe growls low in his throat. 

Ryan is not dead, Theo just showed his hand—he plans on killing him tonight. Now that Joe has poked his head up for air, he’s decided to kill him as well. Joe has made a nuisance of himself now and he’s already embarrassed Theo once. Joe has gone and effectively ended his little grace period, the window Theo had left open for him to slip through and away. He’s made a _bother_ out of himself and if there is one thing Theo hates more than anything else it is being inconvenienced. Control freaks are all the same.

What Joe really needs right now is a car, another knife and quite possibly a gun if he can find one. He has four hours to get his shit together and show up or Ryan is going to die. Joe might die, too, but at least this way it’s on his own terms, not strapped to some goddamn chair. This way, he can be right next to Ryan if it comes to that. Though if he has his say about it, it will not.

**VII**

The address Theo gave Ryan to meet him at is outside of Philly, edging into the rural farmland. It’s a stately old home set way back from the road and screened by trees. The only reason Theo agreed to meet him like this is that it’s on his own turf and he’s tired of playing with Ryan. Tonight, he plans to kill Ryan and that’s okay with Ryan, Theo is welcome to try. He didn’t say to come unarmed, so Ryan didn’t bother to pretend. This is not a mission to be acted out with good faith. He’s got his Glock, a small pistol strapped to his ankle and his knife.

There is no car in the driveway, no lights on inside, but Ryan knows the place isn’t empty. He can feel it like ice water trickling down his spine. He kills the car and gets out, slips around to the back of the house, checking the place out in the failing light. All of the curtains are tightly drawn; he can’t see a damn thing.

When he walks back around the house, the front door is open though. A gaping hell mouth inviting him in. Ryan takes out his flashlight and flicks it on, hooding the light with his fingers curved over the head, his gun is in his other hand.

 _This is a bad idea,_ Joe says. _Don’t you feel it, Ryan?_

“I do,” Ryan says. He steps through the door anyway.

The house is empty, just like the one he and Mike checked out a few weeks ago. Theo might keep these places held in reserve, but he does not live in them. They found his home—his hidey hole—and stole that away from him. It’s why he’s so damned mad at Ryan now. He never has been good at making friends.

He’s just cleared the entryway when he hears the faint squeak of a floorboard. He manages to turn in time to avoid Theo’s knife going into his left kidney. Instead, the blade drags across his back to his waist, slicing a deep, red ditch into his flesh that soaks through the leg of his pants.

“Hello, Agent Hardy,” Theo says. “You’re early.” He advances on Ryan again, calm and cool as a jungle cat stalking prey.

Ryan uncovers the beam of the flashlight and shines it right in Theo’s eyes, blinding him. He jerks away as Ryan fires and the bullet catches him high on the shoulder as he runs into the dark recesses of the house.

Ryan doesn’t give it a second thought, he takes off after Theo. Each stride spreads the cut open and closed like a begging mouth. He does not feel the pain, only the lewd spreading of his rent flesh. He finds himself in a hallway, thick with dust and smelling of stale air. He shines his light straight ahead, taking in the closed doors on either side. He passes a door that is narrower than the others, probably a linen closet, with barely a glance.

That is a mistake.

The door bursts open and Theo is on him in an instant. His flashlight hits the floor and goes spinning away out of reach. His gun goes next when his hand hits the maple floor with a bone-fracturing crack. He feels the pain of it sing up his wrist all the way to his shoulder.

Theo does not hesitate with his knife, Ryan feels it slide into his thigh like his flesh is hot butter. The only good thing here is that Theo is as blind as he is now. They’ve both fucked up here. Ryan didn’t look behind himself when he entered; Theo is too arrogant and angry with Ryan to have thought that Ryan would put up much of a fight. Theo of the meticulous planning hasn’t planned this very well at all. The next swing of the blade catches Ryan’s back, skips off his shoulder blade and jitters off toward his spine as he tries to twist away from Theo.

He throws his elbow back and feels it connect with Theo’s chin. It knocks him off balance enough that Ryan is able to wiggle away from him. He’s lost his Glock and the piece on his ankle is too much of a risk to go for right now. Even as he thinks it, Theo swipes at him with the knife and slices into his calf. Ryan manages to get his hand in his pocket though and shoves himself to his feet at the same time. He wobbles, but manages to stay upright; head swimming and vision a little grey around the edges. The wounds themselves aren’t fatal, but the blood loss is making him feel drunk all the same.

“C’mon, Theo,” Ryan says as he snaps out the gravity blade.

 _Ryan, no!_ Joe yells it at him. He sounds alarmed. Ryan is sorry, he really is. He meant to shoot Theo and be done with it, but that hasn’t exactly panned out in his favor and he will not go down without a fight.

“All right then,” Theo says. “You want to play? I can play.”

He feints to the left and Ryan almost falls for it, but corrects himself in the end. The knife still slices into his arm just below the crook of his elbow. He lashes out with his own knife when Theo moves in again and is satisfied to hear his surprised grunt when the blade sinks into his belly. It doesn’t go very deep before Theo twists away again.

“I’m going to kill you,” Theo says as he presses against the wound to his abdomen. “It’s easier if you just accept that.”

“Oh, okay,” Ryan says. “You’ve got me. Here, let me lay down my knife so you can gut me and get it over with. What’s the matter, you afraid of a little challenge?”

It pisses Theo off enough that he rushes him. Getting a serial killer where it hurts means getting them in the ego. It works like a charm almost every time and Theo, while exceptional in many ways, is not an exception in this way at all.

When he hits him, body a slab of muscle that outweighs Ryan by eighty pounds, possibly more, Ryan jabs the knife into his side and jerks it around. It tears Theo’s side open like a tin can, but then he loses his grip, fingers slippery with blood and can’t complete the incision. It might be fatal anyway, but Ryan’s a dead man, too, now. He knows he is. Somewhere behind him, Joe screams with anger and grief.

“I’m sorry, Joe,” Ryan says as his back hits the wall and Theo shoves his knife inside of him. Ryan wraps his fingers around his neck anyway, using the last of his flagging strength to squeeze, trying to end this for certain. He is wet with his and Theo’s blood, soggy with it and there are lights flashing in his eyes like camera glares. He can’t die without finishing this though, he _can’t_.

Ryan can feel his knees starting to buckle, his hands slipping off Theo’s throat to claw and dig at his shoulders, when the shot rings out, loud in the hallway. Blood splashes Ryan’s face in a hot, thick spurt. Then Theo is gone, on the floor and gasping, clawing at his neck where a stream of blood bubbles between his fingers.

Ryan hits the floor on his knees, the action jarring all the way through him. He still doesn’t go down though, he crawls to Theo and picks up his knife where it lays by his side. Someone shot him and it wasn’t Ryan, but he’s not concerned with that right now, he’s not thinking logically in any way, shape or form. He has one thing to do and one thing only: kill Theo.

He stabs Theo right through one of his pretty smoke blue eyes and listens to the sound of his heels drumming against the floorboards as his body dies for real.

“Ryan!” Joe says. He feels his hands on his shoulders, pulling him away from Theo’s body.

“It’s okay, Joe,” Ryan says. “I got him.”

“I see that,” Joe says. “He seems to have gotten you as well. If I had been a minute later, you would be dead right now. Damnit, Ryan, why did you do this?”

“Because I’m so… so lonely now,” Ryan says. He tries to shrug, but can’t quite manage it. “Without you… there’s no point.”

“I’m right here, you idiot,” Joe says. He pats his cheek and his hand is so warm against Ryan’s cold skin.

“That’s what you keep telling me.” Ryan’s voice is slurring. He closes his eyes with a pained sigh.

Joe makes a sharp sound of negation in the back of his throat. Then he slaps Ryan hard right across his cheek. “Oh, no, you don’t. I didn’t come all this way to save you just to have you die on me. That is not how this goes, Ryan.”

“What are you talking about?” Ryan mutters. He forces his eyes open to look into Joe’s face, at how pale and afraid he looks right now. “You’ve been here the whole time.” He gropes for Joe’s hand and when he takes it, Ryan squeezes. “I miss you like hell. I love you, you know.”

There. He said it at last, far too late, but at least it is done. His eyes fall closed again and he drifts away on a red wave. Now he can die and maybe, just maybe, he can find some peace.

Instead, he dreams of Joe kissing him one last time and then stepping away. _You don’t need me anymore, Ryan._

“No! Joe, don’t you dare fucking leave me! Not now!”

 _It’s going to be better than all right now, just you wait and see. Trust me, Ryan._ Joe waves goodbye then just… fades away until Ryan is all alone in a world that is growing darker with every second he is absent from it.

When Ryan opens his eyes again, he’s choking on a scream, his eyes burning with unshed tears. It is daylight and Joe is asleep in a chair beside his bed. He’s wearing a Philadelphia Eagles t-shirt, which is odd; he’s never changed his clothes before. Ryan is in too relieved to think about that right now though and winces as he tries to sit up some.

“Joe,” he says. His voice is a froggy croak.

Joe startles awake with a snort, but his gaze sharpens the second he sees that Ryan is awake. “Oh, thank heavens,” Joe says. He gets out of the chair and comes to sit beside Ryan. He touches his hair with gentle fingers, runs them down Ryan’s cheek. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“How long was I out?” Ryan asks. He doesn’t remember leaving the house, though he clearly did. He’s in a motel room now, The Sun Downer Inn according the little NO SMOKING cardboard sign on the nightstand.

“Two and a half damn days,” Joe says. “I did the best I could, but I was still afraid it wouldn’t be enough. You are such a damned fool, Ryan. You could have died.”

“You’re starting to sound like a broken record, Joe,” Ryan says. He smiles a little though.

Joe leans down close to his face and scowls at him. “I will continue to be a broken record until you fucking learn to listen. That was a suicide mission.”

Ryan starts to answer him, but then he stops when something dawns on him. He can _smell_ Joe. All of this time, he has been able to see, hear and feel him, but only now does he realize not once did he _smell_ him. He can now, the harsh scent of motel soap, the almost antiseptic odor of cheap shampoo, the faint whiff of sweat from his rumpled clothes.

“Are you real?” Ryan’s voice is a cracked whisper that grows more urgent when he speaks again, “Joe, are you real? Tell me, you have to tell me if you’re real or not.” He grabs Joe’s shoulder and shakes him as much as he can at this angle and weak from blood loss.

“Last I checked, yes, I’m quite real.” Joe looks confused and cocks his head, studying Ryan. He puts his hand over Ryan’s, pats him then takes his fingers in his and laces them together.

Ryan does the only thing he can think of: He reaches out with his free hand and pulls Joe’s hair.

“Ow!” Joe snaps. “Why in hell did you do that?”

“You never said anything hurt before,” Ryan says.

“Before?”

Ryan shakes his head. “You’re real. You really… your grave… How, Joe?”

“Apparently I still have a few fans out there,” Joe says. “Somehow the little geniuses orchestrated a way to raise me back up amongst the living. I think it was very nice of them though I tell you, being buried alive is not an experience I ever want to repeat.”

“Fuck,” Ryan says. He hunches over his legs, feels the pull of stitches in the wound on his shoulder, but ignores it in favor of wiping angrily at his face. He can’t believe he’s nearly crying over this. 

“There, there,” Joe says. “There’ll be none of that.”

He sounds so much like the other Joe, the one Ryan created to keep him company that it makes his head spin. When Joe wraps his arms around him though, Ryan goes willingly. He clings to Joe like he never wants to let him go and Joe lets him do it.

When he pulls away a minute later, he doesn’t go very far. He stares into Joe’s eyes, at the convex reflection of himself in them and Joe looks back, doing the same. Then Ryan kisses him. Happiness is something of an alien concept to Ryan, but he’s pretty sure this is what it feels like. Joe makes a surprised sound then kisses him back, growing hungrier by the second until they have to break apart to breathe.

“That was you in the house,” Ryan says. “The real you.”

“Of course,” Joe says. “Who else would it have been?”

“My hallucination of you,” Ryan says.

Joe laughs then strokes Ryan’s hair, kisses him softly. “While I won’t deny that is absolutely bonkers of you, I must say, I am still touched.”

“Shut up, Joe,” Ryan says. He laughs though. Then stops and looks at Joe. “So you heard me when I said… When I said that I…”

“Yes,” Joe says. “Don’t fret about it. I promise you, the feeling is mutual. Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”

“I knew. You didn’t exactly make a secret of it,” Ryan says with a nod and a faint smile. Then he sighs, raises his hands to cup Joe’s face, thumbs stroking beneath the hollows of his eyes. “I was losing my mind.”

“No, dear heart, I think you’ve already lost it,” Joe says. He turns his head and kisses Ryan’s wrist. “Take it from someone who knows. I assure you though, it can be dealt with and really… it’s not so bad, being insane.”

“Criminally insane,” Ryan says.

“Yes, that, too,” Joe says. He whispers against Ryan’s mouth, his lips curving into a wicked smile as he does, “Imagine all the fun we are going to have.

“As soon as I can walk without falling over.” Ryan laughs again then lifts his head to close the small distance between them and kiss Joe again.

When they pull apart again, Ryan asks the same question he did when he was driving home that first night, “Where are we going, Joe?”

“Wherever you want to go, my love. Though honestly, I was thinking Montana,” Joe says as he settles down in bed beside Ryan and gingerly drapes his arm across his waist, careful to avoid the wounds.

To hear the _real_ Joe say that sends a thrill and a shiver through Ryan. He closes his eyes and starts laughing until his sides hurt, every injury he has bellowing in protest. He laughs until he is crying and sighs when Joe kisses his tears away.

“I can do Montana,” Ryan says. “For such an under-populated state, the murder rate is through the roof. The FBI notices these things.”

“Of course they do,” Joe says. “Then Montana it is. You need a few more days to recover then it’s off we go.”

“A road trip,” Ryan says.

“And what road trip it will be,” Joe murmurs against the side of Ryan’s neck.

Ryan cards his fingers through Joe’s hair and thinks that everything is going to be just fine now. They will spend the rest of their lives hiding, evading capture, but at least they will be able to do it together. To be with Joe in any capacity is all that Ryan has ever wanted. He can accept that now and the acceptance feels good. It feels a lot like freedom at last.


End file.
